


Strange Rituals, Human

by fleurofthecourt



Series: Angels Don't Get Sick [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Allergies, Anaphylaxis, Awkwardness, Castiel in the Bunker, First Dates, Fluff, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, M/M, Miscommunication, Sam Ships It, Season/Series 09, Sickfic, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-15 13:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1305943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurofthecourt/pseuds/fleurofthecourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Be my Valentine?” Dean quipped as he pushed the metal tray across the morgue’s lab table. </p><p>“Of course, Dean,” Cas replied, all sincerity. “Do I need to present you with the heart of a recently deceased man as well? I’m not certain I will have time to acquire one as Valentine’s Day is tomorrow.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a not distant future where Cas has chosen to become human again some time after s9.

“Be my Valentine?” Dean quipped as he pushed the metal tray across the morgue’s lab table. 

“Of course, Dean,” Cas replied, all sincerity. “Do I need to present you with the heart of a recently deceased man as well? I’m not certain I will have time to acquire one as Valentine’s Day is tomorrow.” 

Dean’s mouth fell open, but no words came out. 

He’d expected Cas’ reaction to be different from Sam’s usual eye roll, but what he hadn’t expected was for Cas to take the question at face value. He supposed, since he knew exactly how literal Cas was, that the joke was on him. 

“Uh, no, Cas, that’s, that’s alright,” Dean sputtered, not quite sure how to tell Cas that he wasn’t serious, that he hadn’t even really known that it was February. 

“Would a paper one be sufficient then?” Cas asked, creasing his brow in what appeared to be real anxiety about the matter. 

Dean wanted to tell Cas he didn’t need to get him a heart of any kind because they weren’t Hallmark or Valentine kind of people, and even if they were, it certainly wouldn’t be with each other. But one look at Cas made all the words stick in his throat. Cas’ eyes were lit with hope and a smile, and he would hate himself if he took that away. 

But, unless he actually did this Valentine’s thing, he was pretty sure that he was going to anyway. 

He didn’t actually want to do this, did he? 

What the hell did he just get himself into? 

For a fleeting moment, he thought he was being saved by Sam shuffling back into the morgue. 

“A paper what?” Sam asked as he leaned over Cas’ shoulder. 

“Heart,” Cas said, shifting the metal tray into Sam’s view. Then, as though it were as natural as anything, he explained, “Dean asked me to be his Valentine with this man’s, but I don’t have anything for him.” 

Sam’s face contorted as he tried not to laugh. Ultimately, he pressed his hand over his mouth until he had stifled the compulsion. Then, because he’s a bastard, he asked, “So, Cas, did Dean have plans for you guys?” 

“Dean?” Cas asked, turning his gaze up from the liver he’d been dissecting. 

He looked directly into Dean’s eyes, and, in the face of such intensity, Dean found that he couldn’t say no -- not flat out. 

So, feeling like a deer caught in bright blue headlights, he decided first to deflect and second to run.

Looking back down at the table, he said, “There were traces of sulfur, so I’m thinking ghost. Farmer Brown has a lot more explaining to do. So, I’m..I’m gonna go track the SOB down.” 

Then he darted for the morgue’s door trying his best to ignore Cas and Sam. 

“Dean?” Cas asked. Then, when he didn’t answer, “Is he alright, Sam?” 

“Yeah, Cas, he’s just wrapping his head around something,” Sam said. “But don’t worry, he’ll take you out tomorrow.” 

The hell he would. 

XXX 

Some two hours later, Dean found himself standing over a grave forcing a shovel into soft soil much more vehemently than strictly necessary. 

How the hell had he asked Cas out _accidentally?_

He knew this didn’t even rank on the list of stupid things he’d done -- he’d kickstarted the apocalypse for Christ’s sake -- but, at the moment, it felt like it was at the top. 

For one thing, he was pretty sure, now that he’d brooded pretty damn thoroughly through his grave digging duties, that he had wanted to ask Cas out for real. With like an actual plan. Intentionally. 

And, you know, maybe not a first date on Valentine’s? 

Maybe they weren’t Valentine’s kind of people, but it still seemed like it was asking for trouble. 

Dean wiped sweat from his brow before pulling himself into the grave to get to the bones. 

“Hey,” Sam shouted from six feet up, “you need help?” 

Dean pinched his eyes closed. Truthfully, burning bones went smoother as a two man job, but it left less opportunity for digging through his feelings. So, instead of answering, he asked, “Cas with you?” 

“No, he said he had research he needed to do and went back to the motel,” Sam said. 

Dean considered asking what Cas was researching because he was damn sure it wasn’t ghosts. But that wasn’t his problem right now. “Okay, you want to help? Don’t encourage him with this Valentine’s crap.” 

“Why does it bother you so much?” Sam asked as he handed Dean rock salt to pour on the corpse. 

“What...it..it doesn’t bother me,” Dean said. “Just we’re hunters, not teenage girls waiting for roses and candy grams. No need to act like we are.” 

“Dean,” Sam said. He sighed like he wasn’t sure he had the patience for this. Honestly, Dean had no idea why he ever had the patience for trying to pull his emotional teeth. They both knew it was pretty hopeless. “You like Cas. Cas likes you. Maybe you didn’t mean to ask him out like you did, but what’s the harm in going along with it?” 

To his own surprise as much as Sam’s, he suggested, “Uh, it could destroy our entire relationship?”

“Okay. It could,” Sam hedged gently. “But, Dean, if Cas almost destroying the world didn’t ruin your relationship, how likely is it that a date’s going to? You got past that. I’m pretty sure you can get past an awkward date.” 

Dean was left dumbfounded by that logic. Finally, he conceded,“Yeah, maybe.” 

“You two are idiots,” Sam added. “You’ve been in love for like three years. Go on a fucking date already.” 

“In... love?” Dean over-enunciated, raising his eyes skeptically, a sudden temptation to throw dirt at Sam starting to overwhelm him. Which had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he wasn’t so sure Sam was wrong. “Who said anything about _in love_?” 

“Like I said, you’re an idiot,” Sam said. 

So he was an idiot in love? Yeah, there was no way this conversation was going to continue. 

Dean pulled himself out of the grave and hit Sam’s foot with his shovel. Which may or may not have been an accident. “Yeah, well, Dear Abby, you maybe want to finish ganking this guy?” 

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head before throwing a lit match into the grave. 

XXX 

The drive from Des Moines back to Lebanon the following morning was abnormally quiet. Dean kept licking his lips before almost saying something to Cas, thinking better of it, and saying nothing. Throughout which, Sam kept shooting Dean annoyingly knowing looks, alternating from amused to exasperated. 

Cas, oblivious, sat in the back, eyes glued to the window as though the hopelessly flat landscape contained the secrets of the universe. Dean kept flitting his eyes to the rearview mirror, certain he’d fallen asleep. 

But he hadn’t, and Dean sort of resented him for it. If he was asleep, he’d have a perfectly legitimate excuse for not using his words. As it was, he could only blame his nerves. And Sam’s looks. Because those were not helping. 

Sam finally gave Dean one last look of exasperation before turning his attention to Cas. The two spent the rest of the drive discussing -- of all things -- bugs. Cas hadn’t been human when the weather was overly warm before, so after spending a few evenings in a graveyard in southern Florida, he had a newfound distaste for mosquitoes and a renewed enjoyment of fireflies. He’d since become interested in hearing all about insects from a human perspective. Sam was indulging it. 

Dean usually chimed in on these conversations -- he’d yet to convince Cas that their pollen creating abilities didn’t tip the scale for bees against their ability to sting -- but this time he let Cas and Sam’s words wash over him with the smooth sound of the Impala’s tape-deck laced underneath. 

Once they were back in the bunker, Dean realized, as he watched Cas heading to his room, that he had to say something right then or he probably never would. He’d sit in his room, the one literally right next to Cas’, and let yesterday’s fluke become just that -- a fluke. 

Maybe Cas would say something, maybe he wouldn’t. 

Dean couldn’t roll those dice. 

He inhaled sharply and Cas’ hand was already on the door when he finally managed to shout, much more gruffly than he intended, “7. Meet me out here at 7."

Cas turned back to him and nodded, and Dean untensed. He figured that was going to be that until the date itself. He had the whole afternoon to get worked up again. Or so he thought. 

"Will what I'm wearing be appropriate?" Cas asked. 

Dean ran his hand down his cheek before looking back up. God was Cas clueless. 

His running plan was to take him to a diner and dollar theatre -- because Cas had zero dating experience and wouldn’t give a shit how fancy anything was in the first place -- so, assuming he was wearing clothes period, he’d be fine. 

Nevertheless, Dean scanned him from head to toe. 

The way Cas creased his brow and left his lips slightly parted as he waited for Dean’s appraisal reassured Dean somehow. The nervousness was so human and the puzzlement so Cas. Dean grinned crookedly. Was Cas ever something else. 

He knew that for sure when Cas didn’t bat an eye when it took him thirty seconds too long to reply. 

"Let’s see, jeans are fine, but, uh, maybe a nicer shirt?" Dean said. He felt a little weird telling Cas what to wear on a date when the date was with him, but he had asked. So when Cas frowned down at the worn, faded, and slightly mud flecked green t-shirt that had undoubtedly once been his, he clarified,"Not a ratty old t-shirt.” 

Then, because he had to mess up their version of normal, “You aren’t -- you aren’t supposed to ask me. I mean, not for a first... date or whatever. Uh, ask Sam, maybe.” 

“I should avoid you until this evening,” Cas said conclusively, his eyes going distant as he filed this tidbit away under “strange rituals, human” or “strange behavior, Dean.” Maybe both. Then, looking perplexed and discontent, he retreated into his room. 

And Dean, like an idiot, instead of stopping him, just gaped at the air between himself and Cas’ closed door, feeling like Cas had slammed it even though he hadn’t. 

He slumped into his own room and threw his stuff down before collapsing on his bed. He stared at the ceiling for all of fifteen minutes before deciding that he ought to just walk Cas through this. Never mind that at a certain point it would be the blind leading the blind and wouldn’t take anywhere near four hours to explain. 

Yet, when he looked around the bunker, Cas and Sam were both nowhere to be found. 

Finally, he found Sam’s handwriting scrawled across a note on the kitchen table. 

_Out with Cas. Back by 7._

Apparently Cas had taken his advice to ask Sam about this dating nonsense. Dean couldn’t explain why that suddenly made him mad. It had been his own damn idea. 

It was just that he’d made up his mind to spend the afternoon explaining this shit to Cas, and then he’d gone off and asked someone else. 

Exactly like Dean told him to. 

This was his own fault, and he wished fervently that he could figure out what the fuck he was doing before he screwed this whole thing up. 

He thought back to the day before, as he’d watched Cas so focused on dissecting that he hadn’t noticed that he’d been dancing the heart across the table for two minutes. Dean had pushed that heart at him, he had thought, to get his attention. But it was more than that. This wasn’t completely an accident -- he could admit that now that the thought of it going sideways made his throat tighten -- and he was damn sure going to make sure Cas knew that. 

He hoped.


	2. Chapter 2

At around 6:30, Dean was standing outside the bathroom running a towel over shower damp hair when he heard Cas and Sam’s voices drifting down from the main hallway. 

Realizing that he was still wearing only his bathrobe, he immediately ducked into his room -- a reaction which he had little desire to dissect. It wasn’t as though Cas hadn’t seen him in nothing but that robe more times than he could count, and Dean imagined that, if this went the way it should, the goal was to be seen in even less. 

Yet it was thoughts like that that made the robe feel like it somehow didn’t come with anywhere near enough material. 

He quickly tugged on a pair of jeans, an almost new white t-shirt, and a plaid green over-shirt. He decidedly ignored the fact that he probably chose green because of how many women had gone googly-eyed over it on one-night stands. 

Because like Cas would give a damn whether or not it brought out his eyes. 

With this thought in mind, he had to stifle a chuckle he had no desire to explain when he found Cas standing near the kitchen table wearing a light blue button-down. 

“Sam took me to a thrift store,” Cas said without preamble, raising his eyes on _thrift_ like it was a totally foreign concept -- it probably was -- before waving his hands down his new shirt. 

Dean grinned as he noticed the top two buttons were undone. He couldn’t argue with that decision. 

He knew this was the prescribed time to tell Cas something smooth like _you look good,_ and he’d managed to tell him decently nice things about his clothes in the past. But this time, his tongue veered in a different direction. “You two went on a _three hour_ shopping spree? What did you do? Try on the whole kit and caboodle?”

Cas stared at him plaintively. Dean didn’t blame him. He sounded kind of pissed off, and he knew he had no right to be. So he tried to backpedal. “Look, earlier, I didn’t --I didn’t mean you needed to go out and get something.” 

“I wanted to, Dean,” Cas said firmly, “but that is not all Sam and I did.” 

“Yeah, what else you do?” Dean asked. 

“We went to a bakery, one I thought would be suitable,” Cas said.

“A... bakery?” Dean repeated with a skeptic blink. “What’s a bakery got to be suitable for?” 

"Sam suggested I avoid more traditional Valentines, but," Cas said as he picked up a tin foil container and held it out to Dean, a tight smile curling at the edge of his lips, "I found one I think you will like." 

It was a pie. 

A goddamn heart-shaped pie. 

From a Mom & Pop bakery by the looks of it -- probably homemade and delicious. 

"It's pecan," Cas said, his smile brightening at the look of surprise on Dean’s face. 

"Uh, thanks, Cas," Dean said awkwardly, shuffling back to the table to set the pie back down. It was still a Valentine, and quite literally mushy at that, but he didn’t hate it. He couldn’t -- it was pie. 

Of course, now he felt like he was the one that had shown up empty handed. It wasn’t like Cas had actually held on to the dead guy’s heart, or, at least, he sincerely hoped not. Cas didn’t look like he expected anything though, so with a quick shout to Sam that they were leaving, he herded Cas into the Impala. 

XXX 

“I don’t understand this,” Cas said, tilting his menu downwards and staring across the booth at Dean. 

“What?” Dean asked, glancing at the page Cas’ thumb was pressed against. It was advertising salads and low-carb options. “Why people feel the need to make up a category for food that isn’t really food? Yeah, man. Me neither.” 

“No, Dean,” Cas said with a put-upon sigh. “What we’re doing here.” 

He waved around them emphatically. 

“A diner isn’t your go to date destination, huh?” Dean asked with a soft huff. He ran his hand over the back of his neck as he tried to figure out what Cas would have preferred. He honest to god had no clue what Cas would consider a good dinner date locale. It wasn’t like they had restaurants devoted to PB & Js and Ramen. “We can go somewhere else if you want.” 

“Dean,” Cas said stiffly. Dean jerked his head up and really looked at Cas. “If my understanding of dating is correct, it’s meant to help you learn about your partner, and if you’re compatible. We know much about each other, and I believe we’re compatible. Is there more to it?” 

"You know all about me, huh?” Dean asked. Because there was no chance he was admitting that Cas might be on to something. “I think I’ve got at least six scar stories that say you’ve got some brushing up to do. And don’t tell me centuries of battles behind the pearly gates didn’t leave you with a few stories.” 

“I do have many,” Cas said, with a contemplative flick of his eyes. 

“And, hey, you don’t just skip ahead to relationship Nirvana. You have to do the stuff in the middle,” Dean said. Like he’d never done exactly that. But, hey, Cas wasn’t Lisa. And comparing them would be apples to oranges. “Besides, married people do this for kicks. You don’t stop just because you’re right for each other. Which I’m not saying we are, but... ” 

_We are_ the back of his head supplied traitorously. 

He trailed off with a self-deprecating grin and looked down at his menu. When he looked back up, Cas was nodding thoughtfully but still looked distantly confused. 

“And, Cas, it’s supposed to be fun,” Dean said. 

“Oh,” Cas said, deflated. “You said I’m not that much fun.” 

Okay, maybe not the most convincing route to take here, but Dean was sticking to it -- the other ones were proving dangerous. 

“Yeah, well, anymore, neither am I,” Dean said. “Besides, you have your moments.” 

It was probably best not to mention that most, though not quite all, of those moments were unintentional, so he was a little relieved when Marissa, their waitress, came back right then. 

“Coke for you,” she said setting it down by Dean. Then setting another glass by Cas, “And water for you. Another couple minutes on the milkshake. Sorry about that, but our machine’s giving us a fit.” 

She then pulled a handful of straws out of her apron and set two on the table. “You need one or two more?” 

Cas cocked his head up to her quizzically. “I’ve never had a milkshake before. Is one not going to be sufficient?” 

Dean smirked. Cas’ Cas-ness meant he pretty much always had his moments.

She laughed warmly before giving Cas a sharp wink. “Depends on whether or not your boyfriend wants to share.” 

Dean had known exactly where she was going with this, but that did not stop him from nearly choking on the mouthful of Coke he’d just swallowed. After clearing his throat about three times, he sputtered, “Date. First date.” 

He figured she was lucky he admitted that much. But she gave them a double take and glanced at the nauseating array of pink streamers hanging from the diner’s ceiling -- the array that had almost made Dean drag Cas back out of the place on principle. 

“On Valentine’s Day?” she asked, raising her eyes. It looked like she wanted to say more, but Dean glared at her long enough that she wordlessly set two extra straws on the table before asking if they were ready to order. 

Once she walked away, Dean picked the straws up. Because he and Cas were definitely not talking about why this should be weird. They were going to have fun, damn it. “Well, as long as we’ve got these, we might as well use them for something.” 

“Not for sharing my drink though,” Cas said. "That seemed to make you uncomfortable." 

"If we're swapping saliva, tongues better be involved," Dean said. Because if he and Cas were going to French it was not going to be by proxy. "Not that...not that we're going to...not that ...not that we're not going to..."

Hadn’t he been able to speak to Cas totally normally like a minute ago? 

He took a deep breath and moved on. He jabbed his straw in the air between himself and Cas."I have a way better use for these suckers."

He pulled the wrapper off his straw, rolled it into a ball, and set it in the middle of the table. “Straw soccer, straw football can’t remember which. But, whatever you call it, me and Sam used to play this all the time when we were kids.” 

"It's a game?" Cas asked as Dean started moving their silverware. Dean nodded. "So it's fun?"

"That's the idea," Dean said with a grin. He proceeded to explain how the straw wrappers were now their balls and their respective forks and knives would serve as goal posts. 

Then he demonstrated what to do with the straw.

"So,” Cas held up his straw as Dean finished explaining, “I blow on this sucker? To blow on the balls?" 

And only Cas could ask something like that with a completely straight face, oblivious to any and all innuendo. 

Dean couldn't decide if this was the best or worst idea he'd ever had.

"Yeah, Cas," Dean said finally, barely trying to suppress his amusement, "you do that.” 

After that, Cas started to grasp the mechanics of the game, and he turned out to be fairly adept. 

By the time that Marissa came back with their food -- and Cas’ all but forgotten milkshake -- they were arguing about the game’s finer points. 

"I believe you are trying to use my lack of knowledge of this game to your advantage," Cas said. 

"Sorry, man. But your ball falls off the table, you forfeit points. Those are just the rules," Dean said. 

"Rules which you are making up," Cas countered. 

“Hey, even if I am,” Dean said, with a half-hearted frown at the daily-specials menu that was serving as their makeshift score sheet, “you’re still owning my ass.” 

"Sorry to interrupt, boys," Marissa said. "But I need to stop your game for a minute. Don't want to burn you with these hot plates." 

Dean offered an apologetic nod while Cas shot back like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, both pulling their arms away from the table. 

"Sorry again about the wait on the milkshake," she said as she set it down next to his grilled cheese. "Hope you like it." 

"I hope so as well. I have had varying degrees of luck with trying new things," Cas said. "Both the beverage and the flavor are new." 

"You've never had strawberry flavored anything?" she asked. “You’ve been missing out.” 

"I've never had a strawberry," Cas said. 

She gave Cas a puzzled look and Dean waved her off. "He's not much of a fruit guy.”

Cas looked like he was about to protest -- probably because he ate apple slices like they were candy -- so Dean kicked his shin. 

Once she was out of earshot, Dean hissed, "I know you're not most people, but most people have had strawberries by the time they're ten or something, not pushing forty. You’ve got to try not to say stuff like that.” 

Cas nodded reluctantly as he pushed his straw into the beverage and took a long sip. 

"Well, how is it?" Dean asked as he picked up his burger. 

"Sweet, thick. I'm not certain I like the consistency," Cas said. Then he waved at Dean's discarded straw, "If you are willing to set your discomfort aside, you are welcome to try it."

"Yeah, we’re still not in Happy Days, so pass," Dean said, turning his attention fully to his burger. 

He was two bites into it when Cas unexpectedly placed his hand on his forearm and gripped it urgently. 

“I feel strange, Dean,” Cas said, his voice thin and strained. “I feel very strange.” 

Dean looked up and immediately dropped his burger back onto his plate. 

He should have known that as soon as he started thinking this whole date ordeal was not an ordeal at all but simply a fun night out with Cas, things were going to go abruptly downhill. 

Cas didn’t just feel strange -- he looked it. The skin around his face and neck was splotched red, small bumps were spreading across it, and he was clearly making an effort to breathe. Dean stared helplessly for about fifteen seconds before it hit him -- Cas had never had a strawberry. “Shit.” 

Cas rubbed at his throat before moving to take another sip of the milkshake, clearly unaware that it was the cause of the problem. Dean reached forward and pulled it as far away from him as possible. 

“Don’t drink more, you dumbass. You’re turning into friggin’ connect-the-dots,” Dean said. 

“Into what? What’s ...happening?” Cas wheezed, looking hopelessly baffled. 

Dean ignored him in favor of standing up and shouting to the entirety of the diner, “Anyone here got one of those emergency allergy injector things?” 

Thinking that was a long shot, Dean had already started dialing 911 when Marissa came running out from the kitchen, frantically digging through her purse. 

“I’ve got an Epipen in here somewhere. Got a son with a nut allergy,” she said as she kept searching. Without looking up, she instructed, “It has to go in his thigh. Get him to swing his legs out.” 

Incredibly thankful that they were sitting at the end booth and that the booths’ backs weren’t particularly high or wide, Dean moved behind Cas, gripped his shoulders, and nudged him forward. “Cas, you’ve got to slide over.” 

Cas didn’t say anything, but he moved pliantly enough. Dean kept his hands on his shoulders, likely gripping them far too tight.

Cas stiffened as Marissa moved towards him, so Dean loosened his grip and started kneading his fingers into his shoulder blades. “Relax, Cas.” 

Dean watched as Marissa flipped the Epipen open and set it against the outside of Cas’ thigh. 

“Dean,” Cas gasped, his voice distant but commanding, “Tell me what’s happening.” 

“You’re never having a strawberry shake again, that’s what’s happening,” Dean said. Then, after a glance down at Cas demonstrated he really, really didn’t get it, with a wary glance at Marissa, Dean leaned down and whispered, “Your whole system is going kamikaze on the strawberries like it did with the stolen grace.”

Cas nodded, then twitched as Marissa held the pen down. 

After a minute or two, she collapsed the pen, stood up and turned to Dean. “You really need to take your friend to the E.R. Don’t fool around with this. Sometimes the symptoms don’t go away completely. Sometimes they come back.” 

Dean nodded dumbly. Then before he really knew what he was doing, he pulled her into a tight hug. “Thank you.” 

“Already care this much? Some first date,” Marissa teased as Dean sheepishly backed away. 

Dean turned back to Cas and saw that while his face still looked pretty red, it was starting to fade back to normal. Something in his chest started to unclench. 

He couldn’t remember not caring this much. 

“Date or not, he’s still my...” Dean rubbed his hand over his neck. Family would sound weird here, friend like it wasn’t anywhere near strong enough, best friend like they were going to get matching bracelets. 

Dean finally settled on, “He’s still Cas.” 

Marissa smiled at him like she knew something he didn’t before waving him off when he tried to pay for their dinner. 

He left a twenty on the table before pulling Cas upright. 

“You okay?” Dean asked. 

“I feel ill but better,” Cas said. 

“Good. Let’s get you out of here,” Dean said. 

Once they were both back in the Impala, Dean put the keys in the ignition, debating where to go. He was about to call Sam and ask whether dealing with a hospital now or risking having to deal with one later was the better idea when Cas tilted towards him. 

“Soul mate,” Cas said placidly. Dean wished he needed to ask what he was talking about. “I like the term soul mate.” 

Part of Dean thought that about hit the nail on the head when it came to the two of them. Part of Dean thought he’d rather hit a nail through his hand than admit that. 

The second part refused to acknowledge the existence of the first. 

Choosing to pretend that Cas hadn’t said anything, he pulled his phone out. “I’m calling Sam.”


	3. Chapter 3

After Sam hemmed and hawed through five minutes of an Internet search on severe allergic reactions, continually repeating that it was just going to be a gamble, Dean decided that Cas’ poor excuse for what counted as breathing was more than enough reason to head to the E.R. 

Cas’ still puffy face pushed them through the hoop that was getting him admitted, after which Dean pulled a chair up next to the hospital bed while medical personnel pumped Cas full of antihistamines and oxygen. 

Cas remained fairly stoic through all of it, but after a nurse fit a nasal cannula over his ears and nostrils and walked away, he frowned at it suspiciously before curiously running his fingers down the tubing. “This is helping me breathe?” 

“Yeah,” Dean gently curled his hand over Cas’ and pulled it away, “so don’t mess with it.” 

Cas nodded, but something about the weariness in his expression made Dean refuse to relinquish his hand. He threaded their fingers together, and Cas quirked an eye at the gesture. 

Dean decided that instead of talking about their sudden need for hand holding they should have a chat about how their evening had gone to hell. “Sorry this whole date thing was a bust. Should have seen that coming.” 

Cas carefully tilted his head up towards Dean, his lips pressed together in a puzzled frown. “You didn’t know I was allergic to strawberries.” 

Dean sighed. He wanted to argue with that, but he was kind of at a loss on how. It really hadn’t been anyone’s fault, and he wasn’t really used to that. 

“I was also unaware our date was over,” Cas said. 

“No shit, it’s over,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. Because absolutely no one else would question that the date had ended the minute Cas had started hyperventilating. “We’re in a hospital, Cas, and it’s not like you’re up for playing Dr. Sexy and necking in the supply closet.” 

Which Dean had in no way been fantasizing about in between lying through his teeth about Cas’ history, medical and otherwise. But if he had, it was only because a guy with a sprained ankle had left his boots lying out in plain view. And they were in a hospital. He couldn’t help when his imagination put two and two together.

Cas gave him a tired and confused look that suggested he didn’t have the energy to express how little he’d understood what Dean had just said. He dropped his head back on to his pillow. “Being here will not prevent you from sharing your scar stories. Tell me one.”

“Uh, okay. Yeah, I can do that,” Dean said, slightly taken-aback because although he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, that wasn’t it. “Just, got to pick something good. Give me a minute." 

“I was led to believe we’ll be here much longer than that,” Cas said drily and drowsily. 

Dean shook his head before pulling his hand away from Cas’ so he could tousle his hair. Although he hadn’t exactly said anything, Dean had gathered from his stiffer than normal body language that being there was making Cas uneasy. “I’ll bust us out if we’re here too long.” 

Unsure which of them he was trying to placate with that, because he was pretty sure he wanted to be there less than Cas did, he turned his thoughts to choosing what story to tell. 

He figured it didn’t really matter because Cas was half out of it to begin with. 

So he just rattled off a string of stories about how looking after Sam when he was younger had earned him his fair share of assorted injuries. 

About how his arms and torso had been scratched in more places than he could count when he’d broken their motel room window when they’d been locked out and about how he’d duct taped the window shut and hoped the motel’s staff didn’t notice until they were long gone. 

About how both his hands had been scorched on a hot plate while heating up cans of ravioli when they didn’t have a microwave and about how that had once almost led to their room catching on fire, at which point he’d panicked, and made Sam go stand outside until he had it under control. 

About how his left foot had been run over by Sam’s bike wheels a dozen or so times when he’d spent the better part of an afternoon at Bobby’s teaching him how to ride it without training wheels and about how Bobby had come out and watched right when Sam had finally mastered it and then taken them out for pie to celebrate. 

“Can’t even remember what flavor I had,” Dean said, mostly to himself, because he was fairly certain Cas was asleep or very close to it. So he kept talking and kept absently carding his hand through Cas’ hair. “We all got something different. But I’m pretty sure it was the best pie I ever had.” 

“I don’t remember there being pie,” Sam said from the doorway, giving Dean a weirdly fond smile. A smile that made Dean feel like maybe he shouldn’t be essentially petting Cas. He dropped his hand guiltily. 

“That’s because you obviously have no taste buds,” Dean said. “What are you even doing here? I thought you were still looking for a case?” 

“I was, but it sounded like you didn’t actually eat earlier, so I brought you dinner,” Sam said. “Well, for you. I figured Cas couldn’t eat anything.” 

“Yeah, pretty sure Sleeping Beauty’s out anyway,” Dean said as he pulled a burger out of the bag Sam handed him before giving the salad he found in the bottom a disparaging glare. “You expect me to eat this? Hasn’t health food done enough for one day?” 

“It’s mine,” Sam said rolling his eyes as he took the salad and pulled another chair up next to Dean’s. “How’s he doing?” 

“Oh, he’s peachy,” Dean said as he rubbed his hand down his face. He’d been doing a great job of obstinately not thinking about how Cas was doing. Or, rather, about how what had happened in the diner could happen, at any instant, on replay. “Can’t breathe right without that damn thing on his face, and if someone tells me they need to watch for a ‘biphasic response’ one more time, I’m going to shoot ‘em.” 

“Dean, if that happens, we’re already in a hospital,” Sam said. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” 

“Yeah, he better be,” Dean said as he brushed his hand over Cas’. 

“I do intend to be,” Cas murmured without opening his eyes. 

“Dude, I thought you were asleep,” Dean said as he sprung back in surprise. 

“I think I almost was,” Cas said. "You and Sam are not making the process easier." 

"Sorry, Cas. I can take off as soon as I finish this," Sam said, waving his fork over his salad. 

"Stay,” Cas said. "Please stay. I'm enjoying hearing stories about your childhood, but Dean may be embellishing them." 

Sam snorted. 

Dean thought about arguing with that, because he may have exaggerated the ravioli fire but otherwise the storytelling had been above board. Instead he decided to tackle what was apparently the more pressing question. “You been awake this whole time?” 

“Yes,” Cas said as he hesitantly rested his fingers against Dean’s wrist. “You seem more apt to touch me if you think I’m not aware of it, and I found what you were doing comforting.” 

He opened his eyes and looked into Dean’s. “I didn’t want you to stop.” 

Dean looked back levelly, despite the fact that his insides had twisted kind of strangely, and tried his best to ignore the fact that Sam was right behind him. “I ...I guess I don’t have to stop.” 

His fingers threaded back through Cas’ hair as he said, “So, um, well, let me tell you about when Sam thought Batman could fly.” 

XXX 

Sam and Dean were informed, at some unspeakable time of the morning, that since Cas’ breathing had returned to normal and the chance for a biphasic response had passed, they could take him home. 

So Dean worked on falsifying more hospital paperwork as Sam coaxed Cas, who had fallen asleep in earnest, off the hospital bed, back into his regular clothes, and into the Impala. 

Then, with Cas curled against the passenger side window and, apparently, safely out of earshot, Sam rounded on Dean. “So, I was looking at that paperwork you filled out...” 

“Yeah? Pretty sure I dotted my I’s and crossed my T’s,” Dean said as he rested his hand against the driver’s side, yawned, and waited for Sam to get to the point. 

“Dean, you put that Cas was married,” Sam said. 

“Yeah, so?” Dean said. “I also put that his name was James Kirk. Clearly not enough trekkies in that hospital.” 

“Yeah, that’s definitely what’s weird here,” Sam said. 

“Not like I doodled Castiel Winchester with hearts over the I’s,” Dean said, wishing _that_ hadn’t rolled right off his tongue. Because he had the sinking feeling it was just like that -- Lisa Frank notebook aside. “Don’t act like it is. I just marked the letter M.” 

“Okay, Dean. Whatever you say,” Sam said putting his hands up in unconvincing surrender, clearly not buying any of Dean’s bull. Because Dean knew, despite having thought through a few hackneyed excuses, that was exactly what it was. 

He knew, regardless of, or, perhaps, because of the night before, where this thing with Cas was headed. Where he wanted it to be headed. Where, retrospectively, it had probably always been headed. 

“But if that’s what you want,” Sam said, “pretty sure Cas wants it too. Actually more than pretty sure.” 

Sam’s lips were pressed tight in private amusement about whatever he was not quite saying. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asked. Then when Sam only twisted his lips in reply, he demanded, “Out with it, Sam.” 

“He bought you a ring, Dean,” Sam said, silent laughter crinkling around his eyes. 

“He...he what?” Dean said, eyes widening. Because while he did want that he was about a million light years away from actually being ready for it. 

“I talked him out of proposing yesterday, but I think I could still change his mind,” Sam said teasingly. 

Dean was pretty sure he’d have a few sarcastic replies to offer if he hadn’t physically stopped breathing. He doubled over, leaned against the Impala for support, and wished Sam wasn’t there to witness this particular breakdown -- nevermind that he was sort of the cause of it. 

“Whoa, okay. Jeez. Dean, calm down,” Sam said as he gripped his shoulder. “I’m not going to do anything.” 

Dean shook away from Sam and took a few steadying breaths before reaching for the door handle and sliding into the driver’s seat. 

“You okay?” Sam asked, stepping back tentatively. 

“Just...just fine,” Dean said with a vehement glare as he not quite slammed the door. Which was ridiculous because he wasn’t actually mad at Sam. Not really.

Mostly he was mad that he’d been thrown into the deep end of dating a guy that used to be a member of another species and, try as he might, still didn’t quite understand human customs. 

He took a deep breath, put the keys in the ignition, and decided that running on almost no sleep was not the best condition to ponder his relationship with Cas in. He looked in the rearview mirror and caught Sam shaking his head as he climbed into a silver Chevy ‘57 from the bunker’s garage. Then, with a heavy sigh, he put the Impala in reverse.

As he did, Cas raised half-lidded eyes to him. “You and Sam were fighting. Is there something wrong?” 

“No, Cas...we weren’t...we weren’t fighting. Go back to sleep,” Dean said. Then under his breath, “And don’t friggin’ propose to me. Not before we’ve even kissed.”


	4. Chapter 4

Once he got Cas settled under his comforter, with a drowsy but convincing promise to come get him or Sam if he felt at all like he had the night before, Dean started to head for his own room, fully intending to collapse into his memory foam for at least a few hours. 

Cas had other ideas. 

“Could you stay with me?” He asked, reaching blindly for where Dean’s shoulder had been a moment prior. 

"What, you want me to spoon you until you fall asleep or something?" Dean asked with dulled sarcasm, leaning down to where Cas’ hand was, pressing himself into it.

Cas opened his eyes and furrowed his brow in uncertainty. "A spoon would be involved how?" 

Dean tried to bite back a laugh as Cas stared. He didn't quite succeed. “Know what? Think I’ll just have to show you. But, uh, not now. I need to, uh...” 

Dean gestured vaguely towards the door even though he couldn’t think of a single reason to bail on Cas right then -- other than his obvious need to get the hell away from him before the, admittedly, unlikely event that he spring up and pull a ring out of his pocket.

“I need to change,” Dean said finally, realizing that he was in fact still wearing the clothes he had had on the night before. Cas was too, but Dean figured spending a few hours hooked up to an oxygen supply gave him a free pass. 

Another contemplative crease appeared at the top of Cas’ temple, but he nodded all the same. 

“I’ll come back in a bit to check on you,” Dean said. He ruffled Cas’ hair. “Promise.” 

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas said as he curled deeper into his pillows. Dean huffed lightly. Of course Cas would thank him for running scared. 

Once out of Cas’ room, he stood in the hallway and ran his hand down his face a few times before finally heading into his own. 

Traitorously, he pulled himself into bed with his clothes still on. But digging something out seemed like a waste of energy, and he was running on fumes as it was. 

Earlier he had almost dozed off sitting up in the hospital chair, but the sound of Cas’ erratic breathing had kept him just on the edge of truly falling asleep.

And even if that hadn’t kept him up, Sam’s hair would have. Unlike Dean, Sam had had no trouble letting sleep claim him, and his long, thick mane had repeatedly dangled over and brushed against Dean’s cheek. Dean had drowsily considered cutting it off while he slept but either decided he was above that or too tired to find scissors. Either way, Sam still had Jesus hair. 

Now though, despite how tired he knew he was, once in bed, his thoughts would not allow him to drift off. 

Every single one of them was about Cas. Sam saying he and Cas were in love. Cas saying they were soulmates. Cas buying him a damn ring. 

He was in so deep here, and ...

Damn it all, he wanted to be. 

It was Cas. 

So some thirty minutes later he threw himself over the side of his bed and headed back to Cas’ room. 

He cautiously opened the door, letting only a thin trail of light spill in from the hallway. He hesitated, thinking that he really didn’t want to wake Cas up. 

“I’m not asleep, Dean,” Cas said as he tugged the cord on the lamp beside his bed. Dean took that as the invitation it was and drew closer, pushing the door shut behind him. He wasn’t planning on leaving.

“You didn’t change,” Cas observed, more question than accusation. 

“No,” Dean agreed. Then he thought that, maybe, he actually had, and a soft grin spread over his cheekbones. “But said I’d check on you. So scoot.” 

Cas raised an eye before shifting over a few inches as Dean pulled himself onto the mattress. “Are we going to ‘spoon’ now?"

"Well, we aren’t going to fork," Dean said as he slung one arm across Cas' chest and loped the other around his shoulder and collarbone. 

“Fork?” Cas asked. “Are there...are there so many forms of intimacy named for cutlery?” 

Dean grinned but didn’t answer. Instead, he tugged Cas closer, rested his chin on his shoulder, and breathed in his hair. It hadn’t been washed in three days, was kind of greasy, and smelled vaguely like hospital antiseptic. Cas hummed into the fold of his arms, though, and Dean figured there were worse things. 

A minute later, Cas wordlessly rolled forward to turn the lamp back off before wriggling straight back into Dean’s arms. 

After that the room was quiet for long enough that Dean had begun to drift off when Cas unexpectedly murmured, “I like spooning.” 

“Yeah? Huh. Well, good,” Dean said distantly. Then he pressed his fingertips against Cas’ shoulder and said, “How ‘bout you like sleeping too? Cause I need some.” 

“Alright, Dean,” Cas said into his pillow. 

XXX 

A few hours later, Dean woke up to his arms stretched across empty space, the mattress still lightly dipped and warm from where Cas had been lying. A pleasant, fuzzy feeling coursed through him before he hazily wondered where Cas had gone. 

He probably would have outright panicked about Cas’ absence if it had lasted past his dazed journey into full consciousness. But during it, Cas awkwardly toed the door to the room open trying not to drop the two plates he was holding, before treading lightly across the linoleum. He smiled lightly when he saw Dean was awake. “I brought your pie.” 

“What, no bacon and eggs?” Dean teased as he sat up and reached for the plate and fork Cas was offering. 

“I was unaware there was a prescribed menu for this,” Cas said tugging the plate back out of reach. “I can try to make bacon and eggs.” 

“No, Cas, I was just... Cas, pie in bed. That’s like a sex dream.” He kind of wished he hadn’t put it like that, but Cas gave him his plate back so he figured it was probably worth it. 

“The baker claimed that the pie would taste like home,” Cas said as he sat down next to Dean and leaned against the headboard. He picked up his fork before staring sullenly at his own plate. “I’m not certain that’s possible. Does home have a taste?” 

“Don’t know. Maybe,” Dean said because that was way too deep for how long he’d been awake. 

Then he gave Cas an inquisitive glance. Because what kind of madman just stared at pie when he could be devouring it? He didn’t get it at all so he just shrugged and mentally threw his hands up before digging wholeheartedly into his own slice. He thoroughly relished every bit of the blend of pecan, vanilla, and sugar. 

When he'd wolfed down about half of it, he looked over to see Cas still frowning at his own still whole piece. He pushed his fork against it a few times but made no move to actually eat it. 

"Dude, you don’t know what you’re missing," Dean said. 

Cas huffed and his shoulders sagged. 

“Cas, you alright?” Dean asked. 

Cas took a deep breath before turning to look at Dean. “I don’t want to eat.” 

“Well, not that I get turning down pie, no one’s making you,” Dean said, giving Cas a quizzical once over. He felt like he was missing something, but he had no idea what. 

“Not just the pie, Dean. I don’t want to eat at all,” Cas said. Then, when Dean started gaping at him, because, yeah, that was a pretty serious problem and one Dean could not even begin to process, he added, in explanation, “I’m afraid to. What happened last night, it could happen again. It was... unpleasant.” 

“Yeah, don’t oversell that whole not breathing thing or anything,” Dean said, setting his fork down so he could curl his arm over Cas’ and rub at his shoulder. Then after musing about what he could do for him, he asked, “You’ve had pecan pie before, though, haven’t you?” 

“Yeah, I think so,” Cas said. 

“Then you aren’t allergic to it,” Dean said. 

Cas frowned at the pie again like he wanted to believe Dean but couldn’t. 

Dean took another bite of his own piece before setting his plate aside, then moved Cas’ aside as well. Then with a half formed, likely terrible idea, he cupped Cas’ face in his hands and pulled him forward, pushing Cas’ lips apart with his own, immediately sticking his tongue into Cas’ mouth. 

Cas surged forward, insistently trying to push his own tongue into Dean’s mouth, since it seemed like it was what he was supposed to do. It was all kind of awkward and weird, because Cas clearly had no idea what he was doing, but, well, Dean hadn’t done it to satiate his sex drive. 

He drew back and let only their lips latch together before moving his hands to the back of Cas’ head, tilting it up slightly. Cas followed his lead and tangled his own hands in Dean’s hair. That was better. Nice, actually. 

Then as Cas started to understand the rhythm of it, the motion between them became more fluid, and Dean started to think there was really something to the brush of stubble against his cheek. He almost didn’t want to stop. 

However, he had to remind himself that he hadn’t initially done this for kicks. He drew himself back before he actually couldn’t stop. 

“Don’t stop, Dean,” Cas insisted, looking absolutely tantalized when Dean pulled away. 

“Eat your pie, then we’ll talk,” Dean said. Cas looked from Dean to the pie, puzzled disappointment clouding his every feature. Dean made a show of licking his tongue over his teeth before asking, “Your mouth taste like pecan now?” 

Cas looked at Dean, then seemed to move his tongue around his own mouth, his eyes lighting with comprehension. “The kiss was a trick.” 

“You’re not mad, are you?” Dean asked, suddenly nervous. That was really not what he’d been going for. He’d really just wanted to help. 

“No. It was a good trick for a good reason,” Cas conceded. Then, with a weary sigh, he added, “I would have preferred you kissed me because you wanted to.”

“I did want to,” Dean said quickly. Then rubbing his hand over the back of his neck and shoulder, he scrabbled for the right explanation, “But, man, I didn’t know...I wasn’t...having a reason to do it... _needing_ to do it...it...” 

“Helped,” Cas supplied. 

“Yeah,” Dean said, feeling weirdly caught. 

“The same reason you needed to ask me to be your Valentine jokingly,” Cas said. He picked up his pie and hesitantly lifted a forkful to his mouth. “Then when I agreed regardless, you felt obligated to go along with it.” 

Dean’s eyes widened. “You knew I was kidding?” 

“It’s safer for you that way, I suppose,” Cas continued like Dean hadn’t said anything. “Of course, if you ever want to have sex with me, we’ll have to be inventive. I believe there are spells.”

“Cas, stop. Look at me,” Dean said pressing his forehead against his, causing Cas to drop his fork in surprise. “Don’t you dare start looking up sex hexes. I can’t even begin to tell you how wrong that sounds. And, dude, I _want_ to have sex with you.” 

It wasn’t a lie either, definitely not after that kissing, and, really, probably not before it. 

“Because you need to stop me from opening a spellbook,” Cas said. 

“No, Cas, because...” Dean started then stopped and rolled his eyes when he realized Cas was smiling. “You’re infuriating, you know that?” 

“Would it help if I told you Sam told me the heart was a joke?” Cas asked. “He also suggested why. He thought I should know. He was concerned I had misconceptions about our date.” 

“Gee, I wonder why,” Dean said without thinking. 

“He told you about the ring,” Cas said. He looked down guiltily. “I’m sorry, Dean.” 

“What? Don’t apologize,” Dean said. “I’m not...I'm not mad. Just, let’s not jump the gun here, okay?” 

“I don’t know what that means,” Cas said. 

“It means,” Dean said, sucking in his breath before he jumped off the cliff, “It means, let me tell you when we’re ready. Because, you know what, we will be. Because...” 

He knew why. He'd known why for ages. He still couldn’t say it. 

“Because you love me,” Cas offered. 

“Yeah, that,” Dean agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. All of you rock!

**Author's Note:**

> [catalogercas](http://catalogercas.tumblr.com)


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